In The Middle of the Night
by auburnrecluse
Summary: This is a very random little ficlet that popped into my head after watching The Empty Hearse. It's mostly just a bit odd and fluffy, without much point really other than being fun to write. This is also my first toe into Sherlock fic, and I fully intend to write proper Johnlock once I get my head around it. :) Contains mild spoilers for Season Three.


"John. …John, wake up. John."

When his eyes finally snap open, it's to Mary's face half-lit by the dim light of the bedside lamp. Her mouth is tucked in a worried frown and for once, even half-awake, he doesn't need to be Sherlock Bloody Holmes to connect the dots on this one.

"Sorry," John mumbles, his voice not muzzy from sleep like he expected but in fact raw and hoarse. The skin on his arms has goosed up uncomfortably under a cold sweat, his t-shirt plastered to his chest.

"Bad one this time?" Mary's hand is warm when she lays it on his forehead to smooth back his hair as he makes a nondescript noise of assent. "You're shaking."

"Alright—I'm alright." The words tumble out easily enough, even before he can be sure of the truth in them. He feels a stab of guilt at the bright red numbers on the clock behind her head- 4 AM – and the bleary sleepiness still tugging her eyelids down even as she keeps her gaze fixed on him in concern. "Just a bad turn, that's all. It'll pass."

"Want to talk at all?" is what Mary asks, although her question is weighted down with all the ones she didn't ask instead, like: 'Do you know it's the third one this week?', or 'Was it about him again? Was he dying this time or were you?', or 'Do you think he has any idea what he does to you, fiddling about with your head like that?'.

"Not really." The answers to her unspoken questions are: 'Yes.', 'Yes', 'Both of us', and 'I have no idea, but he'd probably be pleased if he knew and take it as a compliment, the great ruddy pillock'. Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, John sits up. "It doesn't matter."

"Was it this bad before?"

Before what? There are too many befores for John to keep track of at the moment. There's 'before I met you', and 'before I saw my best friend's head smashed in on the pavement', and 'before I found out my best friend's head was actually completely intact and he never saw fit to correct that assumption even though he saw me cry (god, he saw that, didn't he, he did say he heard my speech which means he saw me blubber like a child over his grave and it didn't matter at all, he didn't give a toss that he'd destroyed my entire bloody world for another of his elaborate mind games)', and of course, 'before I had a best friend at all and that was somehow infinitely worse than a dead best friend and I didn't even know it'.

"I'm just going to get some water," John manages, shaking it off as he pushes the sheets aside to stand up. He drops his hand down to press Mary's palm to his with an affectionate murmur, "Go back to sleep, love."

"Don't you stay up the rest of the night," she calls after him as she turns off the lamp, clearly wanting him to stay but knowing he always needs these moments after to collect himself.

* * *

The overhead light in the kitchen is overly bright and buzzing obnoxiously as John nurses his second glass of water, staring down at the messages on his phone that have accumulated in the time between when he went to bed and now. The most recent of them read:

_Are you awake? SH_

_Why aren't you awake? SH_

_You're always awake by now. Your first attempt at sleep will have ended in nightmares and you're probably sitting there watching crap telly. SH_

_Or drinking tea. No, water. You won't want to put the kettle on because you think it will wake her even though she's already awake, obviously, and she won't go back to sleep properly until you're back in bed. She sleeps better with someone in the bed beside her, but you don't. SH_

_Third time this week, John. You really should see someone. You haven't been back to your therapist in over a year. SH_

_How many bones are in a gull's wing? I'd consult the internet but my laptop is over there. SH_

"You have internet on your phone!" John is unable to help muttering in exasperation, glancing back to the bedroom before shaking his head. He refuses to indulge this, even as three more texts crop up in rapid succession.

_You did take basic biology at some point. SH_

_I know you're awake. SH_

_John. SH_

"How could you possibly-" John frowns, before suddenly sitting up straighter and punching out a text furiously.

_DID YOU BUG MY FLAT?_

_No. SH_

_DID MYCROFT BUG MY FLAT?_

_SO HELP ME GOD IF I FIND ONE SINGLE CAMERA_

_The gull's wing, John. Focus. It's important. SH_

_YOU HAVE INTERNET ON YOUR PHONE._

_The screen's too small. SH_

* * *

"John, what on earth are you doing?" It's 6am and Mary's standing in the hall, staring out at the wreckage that was once their perfectly well put together sitting room.

"It's here somewhere, and I'm damn well going to find it."

"Find what exactly?"

"The camera!"

"The—no. He wouldn't."

"Oh yes he would."

Drawing her robe more tightly around her, Mary glances around in wonder before shrugging her shoulders and giving a little wave. "Well hello then, Sherlock. Would you like to come round for breakfast?"

"Don't encourage him!" John looks up from where he is dismantling the couch to see his phone buzzing on the corner table.

_Love to. I'll be there in an hour. And the sofa? Honestly. SH_


End file.
